


to lose myself in you

by catgirl220



Series: Senses of Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catgirl220/pseuds/catgirl220
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts as an eighth year student along with various other schoolmates. However, the war has changed them all in more ways than he can count. One change is the mysterious bond growing between him and Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to lose myself in you

**Author's Note:**

> So there's one scene in here that deals with post-traumatic stress disorder, and might be slightly triggering? I hope not, but just figured I should give a warning. Also I never write in present tense, so apologies for any grammar problems. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

One of his earliest memories is the smell he associates his mother. Narcissa smells like vanilla, and he remembers the aroma of her perfume wafting gently around the room as she sang him a lullaby, soft voice rising and falling sweetly. If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to say when this memory occurred, but for as long as he’s been alive, his mother has always smelled like vanilla.

Draco’s father is not vanilla. He is boot polish with a hint of expensive cologne to create an aroma that just screams Lucius. Draco remembers his mother sitting by the fire reading, only to hear his father’s step coming down the hall after being delayed. She ran to him, blond hair flowing, and vanilla mixed with boot polish as the little boy watched them, giggling, on the carpet.

When he meets Pansy Parkinson at age four, he is disgusted. He didn’t want to go play with a stranger, and especially not a girl. But she laughed at his frown and helped him build a house out of pinecones. They stood together, admiring it.

At age 10, he picks out a perfume for her birthday (with Narcissa’s help). The one he chooses smells of pine needles and ice water.

“I’m going to be a fine lady,” She joked, brown bob swinging. “Not a tree nymph, Draco.”

But she tried on the perfume anyway and he watched, pleased, as her eyes turned dreamy.

“It’s lovely,” Pansy said to him, dark eyes serious. “Thank you.”

She has been wearing the same kind of perfume ever since.

Hogwarts has a certain kind of smell, too, one that he associates with magic and learning. The school smells like firewood and marble—an odd combination to be sure, but one that suits the old place. The aroma of Hogwarts loses some of its charm as the years go on. Now the smell reminds him of competition and the struggle to impress. He returns there for an eighth year after the war, and the smell makes his stomach clench—with nostalgia, anxiety, or hatred, he can’t tell.

And the war—oh, the war. It brings an awful scent to his memories that only makes them more lucid—it brings a smell of blood and coldness to his waking hours and it haunts him in sleep. He suffers nightmares, ones that leave him bolting upright, gasping for air, a stillborn scream stifled on his lips. Rather than stay and face his dreams, Draco opts to walk around the silent school. He is a coward—everyone knows that. He always leaves quietly, hoping not to disturb anyone.

He doesn’t know that ever since the war, Harry Potter is a light sleeper who dozes only fitfully, jumping awake at every slight noise, and always keeps his wand at his side. The Boy Who Lived watches the former Death Eater with half-shut eyes and wonders where he goes every night. In other years, this would cause the hero to be filled with suspicion and follow Malfoy. Now, though, he figures everyone deserves their secrets.

It is during one of these midnight walks that Draco meets Luna Lovegood. Sure, he knew who she was before (she’s always attracted attention), but he’s been avoiding her ever since he came back to Hogwarts. How would he start a conversation?

 _'Hey, Loony, remember when you were kidnapped and tortured in my family’s dungeon? Good times.'_ He could just imagine how she would react.

He bumps into her by accident as he rounds a corner—literally bumps into her, causing her wand to fall to the ground. Ollivander’s creation maintains its _Lumos_ , spinning on the floor and making shadows glow on the walls.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean—”

She smiles at him dreamily and picks the wand back up. “No harm done.”

“Why are you wandering around here, anyway?” He asks. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Her tone is not unfriendly, simply vague and mildly interested.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Her eyes catch his. “Nightmares?”

“No,” he says defensively.

“We all have them,” she says. “Well, I wouldn’t know about you eighth years, but the girls in my tower do.” She looks at him curiously. “Where did they put you lot, anyway?”

He rolls his eyes. “The Room of Requirement.”

The Room had repaired itself after the war. There was no sign that the room had been baking with magical fire, or even damaged at all. _Like us. We hide our scars and move on_. Draco smirked. _How very British._

The eighth years who had come back to finish their schooling were put in the room—mixed together with no separation of house or status. In another time, Draco would have thrown a fuss, but now he was simply too weary to care. And the students separated automatically into house—Gryffindors in one corner, Slytherins in another, etc. Pansy had said it was the same way in the girls’ room, although there weren’t many Slytherin girls who had come back.

“Do you get nightmares?” He asks Luna. “Is that why you’re out here?”

She shakes her head. “I like to look at the stars.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.” He thinks it foolish.

Luna smiles, walking towards a staircase. “Well, come on.”

With nothing else better to do, he follows her. She leads him up to an open tower where the night sky glitters above. He realizes that her nightgown is a deep purple. It looks ridiculous, and he grins to himself.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The stars,” Luna says, looking up to the heavens. He follows her gaze, and the galaxies twinkle at him.

“Some people think stars are souls of those who’ve died,” She says dreamily, leaning forward, her elbows on the wall. “Some think they’re the many eyes of a great creature watching over us.”

“They’re just balls of gas,” Draco says.

Luna laughs softly. “Maybe.”

They stand in silence for a while, the cool night air blowing around them. Looking at the vastness of space makes Draco’s problems seem tiny and insignificant. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“You smiled,” The girl beside him says suddenly.

He turns to her, startled and a little freaked out. “No I didn’t.”

“When we were first came up here. You smiled.”

Right. He had been laughing at the color of her nightgown. “Maybe you imagined it. I don’t usually smile.”

“That’s too bad,” she says casually. “People who don’t smile are more susceptible to a Dura Facie.”

“A what?”

“Oh, yes. They look like doxies, but they paralyze faces. You can’t move a muscle—not to open your mouth, not to blink or crinkle your nose.” She looked over at him knowingly. “People who don’t smile more easily become prey.”

“I…What?” Putting that barrage of information aside, Draco focuses on the more confusing aspect of this conversation. “Why are you being so…normal? For you, anyway. Well, you’re not being normal, but you’re being normal to me, I mean.”

She blinks at him owlishly. “You’re not making sense.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? You’re not a Slytherin, and you don’t owe me anything. I locked you in my basement, for Merlin’s sake!”

“You didn’t lock me in the basement,” Luna says. He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts over him. “No, listen. You didn’t lock me in the basement. The Death Eaters did.”

“I was a Death Eater!”

She shrugs. “Not really.”

“Yes, really!”

“No, not really.”

He glares at her, and she smiles back infuriatingly. Realizing he can’t win, Draco moves on to a new argument. “Well, my family almost killed you! If you had been kept in that cellar much longer, you would probably have died of hypothermia!”

Luna waves a hand. “My father tried to kill Harry Potter. It’s not a big deal.”

“What?!”

“My point is, Draco, that it was wartime. Everyone did things they weren’t proud of. Everyone’s family screwed up. And I was upset with my father, I’ll admit, but I forgave him because he was truly sorry. After all, he was only trying to protect the ones he loved, and no one was seriously hurt.” She frowned. “Except for our Crumple-Horned Snorkack tusk. That was such a shame.”

“You called me Draco,” Is all he can think of to say. “Most people…don’t.” Only his family and close friends call him Draco. The rest call him Malfoy, or Death Eater in whispers behind his back.

Luna smiles at him as though she knows what he’s thinking. “Can I give you a hug?”

He nods, unable to think of anything to say. Luna hugs him gently. Everything about her is gentle, Draco realizes. She might be mad, but she is kind and unnervingly knowing. She smells like wildflowers and night rain in the countryside.

What would his father say, Draco wonders, if he could see his son now? Making friends with a Ravenclaw (who was in an absurd purple nightdress) on top of a tower while the moon and stars shone down? Draco could hear his mother laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. His nightmares seem distant and far away.

Draco cracks a smile and hugs Luna a little tighter.

A few days later, he is walking into the Great Hall with Blaise when he hears the unmistakable sound of people laughing. The source of their laughter is revealed to be one familiar blond Ravenclaw, who had piled her hair up into a beehive and stuck an orange vegetable in the top.

He stalks over to the table where people are crowded around, jeering. “Oi!” He calls out. “Move it.”

They quiet, staring at him with resent and some nervousness.

“You heard me,” Draco says again. “Do I need to repeat myself? Stop bothering her.” His eyes narrow. “I get angry when I have to say things more than once. And you do not want to see me get angry.”

The students mutter to themselves, but disperse anyway, leaving back to their breakfast. Luna looks up at him.

“You didn’t need to do that. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” He answers, and sighs. “Really, Luna? A carrot?”

She grins. “I got it from the house elves. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Why?”

“It’s supposed to bring good luck! Orange is a cheerful color, and it’s raining out.” She smiles brightly.

Blaise taps him on the shoulder as they walk to the Slytherin table. “Are you friends with Loony Lovegood now?”

Draco shrugs. “Apparently. Got a problem?”

“No, just saying. She’s a bit mad.”

“Yeah,” The blond boy says, chuckling fondly. “She is.”

 

Draco is forced to partner with Hermione Granger for a Charms assignment. She is reluctant to leave her friends, taking her sweet time gathering her bag and whispering something into Potter’s ear that makes him turn red. The Slytherin watches with interest. He’s never known Potter could turn that shade of pink.

Hermione looks over and sees him watching them. Quickly, he glances back down at his paper.

She walks over and plops next to him. “Morning, Malfoy.”

He mutters a response back. Conversation is stilted and a little bit awkward as they work on the task assigned. But she tells a joke halfway through that startles a laugh out of him and earns a pleased look from her.

The sound of his laughter makes Potter whip his head around so fast Draco thinks it might snap in two. He’s gonna get injured if he keeps doing that.

He notices the smirk Granger sends at Harry. _Interesting._ Weasley, oblivious as always, nudges his friend on the shoulder.

“Hey, mate, you okay?” The ginger says.

Potter is still staring at Draco, who is beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. He doesn’t seem to hear Ron’s question. Hermione giggles.

“Did you just laugh?” Potter mouthes at the blond boy.

Draco is offended and turns to Hermione. “Tell your—” _Can’t think of a word, Merlin, what’s wrong with you_ — “Tell Potter that I am not a machine and I do laugh occasionally.”

“Ron!” Hermione cries out. “You’re doing it wrong!” She hurries over to the other table, trailing the smell of ink and honeysuckle behind her.

Weasley is utterly confused. “But I didn’t do anything—”

“Professor,” Granger says, smiling her most sickening smile and sticking her hand in the air, “May I partner with Ron? He and Harry need a lot of help, and to be quite honest,” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “I don’t trust them to do it on their own.”

“What about Mr. Malfoy?” The professor—Draco can’t remember her name—says, frowning.

The muggle-born’s smile grows even wider. “Harry can partner with him, no?”

Potter’s face becomes panicked. He shoots his friend a look that Draco couldn’t decipher. Hermione raises her eyebrows meaningfully at him.

 _What the hell is going on?_ Draco thinks, before Potter is sitting hesitantly beside him.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

Draco doesn’t say anything, trying to figure out what just took place. Potter shoots a helpless glance towards Hermione, who makes a shooing motion with her hands.

The green-eyed boy clears his throat and tries again. “So, I heard you made friends with Luna?”

“In a way.” Draco doesn’t look at the boy beside him.

“Oh.” Potter seems at a loss for words, and Draco takes pity on him.

“Us natural blonds have to stick together,” he drawls.

Potter laughs. “I confess, I always thought it was dyed.”

“Dyed?” Draco says, affronted. “You’re joking, right?”

Potter shrugs, part of his hair falling into his eyes.

Draco’s hand itched with the urge to push it back. The hero of the wizarding world he may be, but Potter seems to know nothing about grooming. “My hair is not dyed,” He protests.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Potter says, and quicker than a snake, he is up in Draco’s face, fingering a piece of his hair.

The Slytherin feels his pulse quicken. Has Potter never heard of personal space? The nerve of the boy, treating a Malfoy such… But Draco can’t bring himself to be genuinely angry.

Harry finishes inspecting the fine blond strands beneath his fingertips. He brings his gaze down to Draco’s face, just barely grazing the angled cheekbones with his fingertips.

 _What would it be like to run my hands through his hair?_ Draco wonders dazedly.

Green eyes meet grey, and lock.

Draco can’t think. _He’s too close._ Potter smells like sunny grass and the polished wood of a broomstick. _Too close._ It would be so easy—

Someone on the other side of the classroom drops a book, and the moment is gone. The pair snaps apart, busying themselves with other things, not daring to look at one another.

Potter stands up hurriedly as the class finishes, throwing out a rough “See you around,” and rushing out. The other two frown and follow him, leaving Draco by himself, wondering what just happened.

 

“And then he says ‘See you around,’ and leaves! What does that mean?” Draco finishes, pacing back and forth.

The day was unusually warm, and the group was sitting outside underneath a large tree in the courtyard, mostly. Draco was standing and anxiously walking back and forth. What Blaise was doing could only be described as lounging as he made lazy bubbles in the air with his wand.

Daphne Greengrass was sick and Pansy, longing for female companionship, had accosted Luna Lovegood as she stopped by to give Draco an odd-looking brew. (Luna said would keep the Dura Facies away.)

Pansy looks up from where she braiding Luna’s hair to raise her eyebrows at Draco. “What does it mean? What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!”

“You know,” Luna says vaguely. “Some people say that Dumbledore and Grindelwald were a couple back when they were younger.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Draco chokes.

Blaise chuckles and glances down at Luna. “I like your style.”

Pansy pauses in her braiding to look at her distraught friend. “Draco, I think it has a lot to do with it.”

“Wait, you’re saying I’m—” He starts to laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am being serious!” Pansy says. “And after I heard what happened in the classroom—”

“And especially the way you described it,” Blaise mutters.

“—I honestly think you’re attracted to him,” Pansy finishes, shooting a glare at Blaise, who shrugs innocently.

Draco glances around and lowers his voice. “I hate him. I’ve always hated him, ever since first year. I’ve done everything I can to make his life a living hell.”

“Foreplay,” Luna sings.

He looks at her in horror. “It’s not!”

“I don’t see why you’re fighting it so much,” Blaise says. “I mean, Potter’s gorgeous. If I had a chance…” Zabini blows a bubble. “The things I would do to that boy.”

“Can you not?” Draco asks, vaguely nauseous.

“What’s interesting is I think you’ve always liked him,” Pansy says, looking at Draco like he’s a particularly complex science experiment. “I mean yes, you two were rivals, but the way you teased him…well anyway, he was against everything your father stood for. He was against everything we stood for. But now the Dark Lord’s gone, and you can finally admit to yourself that you fancy Harry Potter.”

“I do not fancy Harry Potter!”

“How long have we been friends, Draco?”

“Years,” He mumbles absently.

“Yes,” Pansy says, finishing off Luna’s fishtail. “Years. And believe me, I know a crush when I see one. You fancy him.”

“I don’t—”

“How do you feel about him now?” Blaise asks suddenly. “Do you hate him?”

“Well… no.”

“Would you like to be friends with him?”

Draco thinks back to the easy banter of the classroom, how the awkwardness had cleared away into something lighter and almost pleasant. The Slytherin frowns.

“Last question,” Blaise smirks. “Would you enjoy shagging him?”

The students watch as the Malfoy in front of them turns white as a sheet, then bright red.

“Oh my God.” Draco sits suddenly and puts his head in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“You fancy him!” Pansy crows, triumphant.

“Yes,” He responds numbly, brain freezing up.

“That’s so romantic,” the brown-haired girl says. “Just wait ’til Daphne finds out, she’s going to scream.”

“So will Ron,” Luna says sweetly. “But in a different way, I’d imagine.” Pansy laughs.

Blaise stands up and stretches. “As fascinating as that journey of self-discovery was, can we discuss this more inside? It’s almost lunchtime.”

“Do you ever think with anything but your stomach?” Pansy complains, following Blaise.

He grins cheekily. “Occasionally. Although if I told you what that particular appendage was, it would ruin your appetite.”

She punches his arm, and Blaise winces. Draco grins, dropping back to walk with Luna.

“Your aura turns pink when you talk about him, you know,” Luna informs him as they walk into the Great Hall.

“My aura turns pink?” He repeats, crossing muscular arms over his chest. “That’s…disappointing.”

“Oh no, everyone’s does,” Luna is quick to inform him. “It’s nothing on your masculinity at all. My father’s does the same when he talks about my mother, although it’s a different kind of pink.”

She smiles at him, changing the subject abruptly as only she can. “Is that what Slytherins are like with their friends? I think it’s wonderful.”

Luna wanders away, leaving the blond staring (not a little befuddled) after her. “Pink?” He asks to the air. “Why pink?”

 

“So, who can tell me what hyperosmia is?” Slughorn asks, pacing the cold dungeon.

Not surprisingly, Granger shoots her hand up, eagerness seemingly undeterred by the events of last year, or the fact that the eighth years were sharing a cramped classroom with seventh years. Ron Weasley, especially, looks mortified at sharing a classroom with his sister. The fiery-haired girl (Jenny? Guinevere?) keeps throwing paper airplanes at her brother when Slughorn isn’t looking. Potter is amused, occasionally reaching out to pick one up and send it back to the Weasette to throw again.

Draco is not watching Potter more than usual. He is not distracted by the way The Golden Boy’s eyes sparkle as he hides a laugh, or the way his hair just gets messier every time Potter runs his hands through it. Nope. Not distracted at all.

“Hyperosmia,” Hermione says, jolting him back to the present, “Is shown to be—”

Slughorn cuts her off, chuckling. “In a sentence or less, Miss Granger.”

Blaise leans over. “What’s less than a sentence?”

Draco shrugs.

“When a person has an extra sensitivity to smells,” Hermione says, looking slightly put out. Needing to share the rest of her knowledge, she leans over to Harry and keeps talking quietly in his ear about causes and extreme cases of hyperosmia. Potter catches Draco’s eye.

“Help,” he mouthes.

Malfoy smirks, raising an eyebrow. His expression clearly reads, ‘Absolutely not.’

“Very good, Miss Granger. Today, we are playing with that concept by focusing on potions that deal with smells. Some of you have already been introduced to Amortentia, which deals in smells that we love. We have that here today, but this—” Slughorn gestures to a lidded cauldron grandly. “—is exactly the opposite. Who is willing to try it out for me?”

The students—Gryffindors and Slytherins alike—all find sudden interest in their hands and papers, avoiding the teacher’s eye. The Potions Master sighs, disappointed.

“What, no one? Come on, how about…Mr. Malfoy!”

Draco looks up slowly. Slughorn is beaming at him. The seventh years look excited and wary. The eighth years are staring at him with varying ranges of something close to pity.

Slughorn doesn’t mean any harm. He is fat, and old, and not the best at reading social situations. Draco realizes that it never even occurred to the teacher that introducing this potion to his students directly after they fought a war might not be the best idea.

_Amortentia…smells you love…This potion is exactly the opposite._

Taking deep breaths, Draco walks up to the front of the room, Slughorn’s words echoing in his head.

 _Don’t let them see you falter,_ He thinks. _You are a Malfoy, Draco. Act like it._

Humans have a fight-or-flight instinct. His has always leant more towards flight. Draco learned from his father how to manipulate people and situations, how to read a crowd, and when things got tough, how to stay alive. His is a family good at running, good at finding corners to wait in until things blow over.

Draco wants to run.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the lidded cauldron of doom, stepping steadily—one, two, keep going— until he reaches the teacher.

“There we go, my boy!” Slughorn says, clapping him heartily on the back. He reaches over to the cauldron and lifts up the lid. The steam wafts out.

It is awful. It is worse than Draco could ever have imagined—it is his nightmares come to life, ensnaring his nostrils until all he can smell is blood, blood, the war, and death rages around him, and he is back in the cellars again, the scent of mold and dripping, stagnant water and old, freezing stone. The scent of rusting iron permeates the air and he is afraid, so afraid, and there is the smell of burning flesh as the Mark sears into him and God it hurts and then he can smell blood and spells as his aunt tortures the girl in front of him and God he never knew it was going to be like this and God he knows this girl, could have been almost friends with this girl oh such a long time ago. And he remembers the Manor, the jolt in his stomach as he sees the familiar face in front of him, ' _is it him Draco?' 'No, it’s not, I don’t know him,'_ oh God just please let them go, let him go. And he remembers green eyes staring up at him, confused and piercing and beseeching, and he is jolted back to reality.

The class stares at him in horror and anticipation. The dungeon is cold and gloomy, but he is safe, he is at Hogwarts safe. The one thing that remains is the same pair of green eyes staring at him worriedly.

Draco runs out of the classroom, hearing the door slam behind him. It’s too much—animal instinct has finally taken over. He finds a corner and sinks into it, steadying himself against the stone and breathing deeply.

Rust and stone and—no, Hogwarts. Here. Hogwarts. Marble and spells and firewood. Safe.

“Hey,” A voice says, and Draco practically jumps out of his skin.

“Potter! You almost killed me!”

The other boy smirks. “That’s kind of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing, stop deluding yourself,” Draco replies easily, although without any fire. His thoughts are still gathering, but this familiar exchange is helping him root himself back into reality.

Harry kneels in front of him, all joking gone. “You alright?”

Draco shrugs. “No.”

“Dumb question, sorry.” There is a pause. “Would it help to talk about it?”

“You’re not my therapist, Potter.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “I don’t really like to talk either, but Hermione always thinks it’ll help.”

The blond gives a noncommittal grunt, looking to the side. Draco feels shaky.

“Look at me,” Potter says suddenly, grabbing Draco’s face. “Who am I? And who are you?”

“You’re Harry Potter, and I am Draco Malfoy, who is not amnesic and has no idea what you’re doing.”

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t slipping away.” Harry’s hands are soothing, cupping Draco’s cheek and tracing the edge of his ear. “That was pretty brave of you.”

Draco snorts, managing to draw his attention away from how close Potter is. “I’m not brave. Slytherin, remember?”

“Shut it, you were brave. I wouldn’t have been able to do that. I would’ve just yelled at Slughorn and gotten detention.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

Harry smiles. “I have a bad habit of confronting teachers.”

His fingers are weaving through Draco’s hair, sending tingling sensations along the blond scalp, and Draco is positive that this has gone a little further than what one would do to normally comfort a friend. Are he and Potter even friends? Was there a memo sent notifying him of this that got lost somewhere?

It strikes Draco what a bizarrely intimate position they are in—kneeling close to each other, breaths mingling, one leg of Harry’s sharing the space between Draco’s. The smell of the war has been replaced with that intoxicating mixture of grass and polished walnut.

“You literally smell like sunshine,” Draco complains. “That’s ridiculous—Who does that?”

Potter smirks. “I’ve been told it’s my happy nature.”

There doesn’t seem like a plausible response to that, but they are interrupted by the Weasley girl, who comes around the corner and hides a smirk when she sees them.

“As much as I hate to ruin the moment,” She says, earning a glare from Potter, “I think you guys should come back in. There are other times for you two to make out, and it’s kind of chaos in the classroom.”

They get up and follow her, grudgingly, and Draco walks ahead, cheeks burning. When he reaches the classroom he is stopped short. It _is_ chaos in there.

The vat is open, its crippling perfume drifting everywhere, and Slughorn is trying to calm down a crying seventh year. Blaise is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, which trickles down his chin. Pansy Parkinson’s eyes are glazed with horror and wobble with tears that she is fighting not to shed.

Hermione Granger is writing furiously on her parchment—line after line of only four letters. Draco catches a glimpse of them, and feels sick. He can practically see her brain trying to work and shutting down as she grips the quill in her fist and etches PTSD over and over again. She writes so hard that the quill breaks in half, and yet she doesn’t let go of it, her force causing indents in the paper where the inked letters would be.

Harry arrives, surveys the scene, and swears colorfully. The Weasley girl sends him an appreciative glance for his vocabulary.

“What do we do?” Draco asks the hero, who suddenly just looks like a very tired teenage boy.

Harry scans the room, gaze finally focusing on the vat of potion. He runs over and slams the lid on, leaving the triggering fumes trapped inside.

While Potter had just efficiently stopped the situation from getting worse, Draco realizes, it’s not any better either. The air is still thick and hazy with the smoke of the potion, and Draco can feel the scents already threatening to pull him under.

“Here,” Someone says, and a piece of cloth is shoved underneath his nose. He takes it gratefully, pushing it against his mouth and breathing through it.

Draco turns to look at the red-haired girl. “This cloth is poor quality.”

She makes a face, tearing off another strip and handing it to Harry. “Not all of our shirts can be made of silk, Malfoy. And desperate times…”

“Call for desperate measures,” He finishes, an idea striking him. “Weasley girl, you’re a genius!”

“My name’s Ginny! And I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said!” She yells, casting spells he doesn’t recognize in an attempt to clean the air.

Ginny. Right. Putting nominal matters aside, Malfoy turns his attention to the thick wall of the dungeon. He wasn’t sure exactly where the classroom was in reference to the lake, or if by trying to help he would end up drowning the lot of them.

That’ll be the day, He thinks ruefully. Some of the students have started to recover, but most were still trapped in their heads.

“Hey, Potter!” Draco calls through the cloth. “What do you think will happen if I blast through this wall to get the air out?”

Harry casts a quick eye to the slab of stone in question. “Five Galleons you end up letting the lake in.”

“I thought you had a happy nature? Ten Galleons it’s just the ground and I save us all.”

“Deal.”

Ginny groans. “Whatever you’re gonna do, stop flirting and do it!”

Draco smirks, muttering a quiet spell. Half of the wall shatters neatly, revealing a mat of roots and earth. The packed dirt outside the wall stays blissfully solid and sucks up the fumes, leaving the air in the classroom smelling clean and earthy. Draco takes a deep breath.

Potter sends out a quick Reparo before hurrying over to his friends. The wall grates back into place.

Slughorn stands up, looking bewildered and out of sorts. Slowly, the students begin to collect themselves, offering hugs to their classmates, disregarding year or House.

Draco hurries over to Pansy, offering her the piece of cloth, which she gratefully wipes her eyes with.

“Where did this come from?” She asks suddenly, looking at the cotton.

“Oh,” Draco shrugs. “Ginny Weasley ripped it off of her shirt.”

“What?” Pansy exclaims. “A Weasley did that? That’s…surprisingly hardcore. You okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. You?”

“Eh.” Pecking his cheek, she walks away to comfort a weeping seventh year, not noticing or not caring about the younger girl’s red-striped tie.

“House Unity at its finest.” Potter says, coming up behind Draco.

“You’re making us all into Gryffindors. How disgusting,” The blond drawls. Harry laughs.

“Is Granger alright?” Malfoy asks reluctantly. “And Weasley?”

“Yeah. A little shaken, but fine. What about Zabini and Pansy?”

“The same.”

Slughorn toddles over to the two boys, exclaiming. “My goodness! That was quite the mistake. Are you alright, Harry m’boy?”

“I’m fine, Professor.”

“And you, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Fine, thank you.” Draco narrows his eyes. “Perhaps that potion wasn’t the best choice to introduce in a classroom setting.”

Slughorn looks abashed. “No, no, perhaps not. Should…do you think I should let everyone sniff a little Amortentia, to, er…cheer them up?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. Before he can say anything, Harry cuts in. “I, uh, think we’re fine, Professor. We’ll manage.”

 _We certainly will_ , The ex-Death Eater thinks, looking out over the classroom. “You owe me ten Galleons, Potter. I told you that plan would work.”

Slughorn chuckles and claps them both on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you two getting along, finally.” He wanders away, stopping to talk to other students.

Potter smirks at the other boy. “Nice job, Malfoy.”

“And you, Potter. See you around.”

And with that, Draco Malfoy packs his bag and leaves, the chuckle of Harry Potter and the odd scent of sunshine following behind him.

 

The next night, his dreams are worse than ever. The scent of that awful potion is still lingering somewhere in the recesses of his brain, and Draco had taken a sleeping potion the night before, hoping to prevent his nightmares. It had worked, and he hadn’t taken it tonight, two evenings after that Potions class. He hadn’t thought he would need it.

How he was wrong.

Draco wakes up, sweating. He feels a sharp pain in his hand and realizes he has been biting it to keep from making a sound. There are deep, red teeth marks on his knuckles.

The back of his neck is prickling, and Draco decides to take a walk, pulling on socks to warm his feet. Maybe Luna would be up.

Harry wakes up blearily from a dream about Cinderella. He steadies himself, checking that he is in fact wearing his pajamas and not a dress. He is about to head back to sleep when the creaking of a door catches his attention, and he grabs his wand.

It’s just Malfoy leaving quietly, not Voldemort risen from the dead. Harry exhales and puts his wand back down. After some consideration, he gets up and follows.

It is dark and drafty in the halls. Draco can’t seem to find Luna—good, perhaps she finally realized she needs to sleep sometimes—so he contents himself with the prospect of walking around for a bit before heading back.

He comes upon an empty classroom and enters, casting a _Lumos_ and watching shadows dance around him. Draco sits, turning his wand this way and that.

He’s not totally surprised when there’s a light knock on the door.

“Potter,” he says without looking up.

“Hey.”

The dark-haired boy enters and sits across from him. “Bit cold, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugs. “Light a fire, then.”

“Don’t have my wand.”

Now the Slytherin looks up. “You followed me and didn’t bring your wand? If this was any other year I’d be cursing your ears off right now.”

Potter’s gaze is steady as he watches the darkness of the room shift and change. “But this year?”

Draco sighs. “But this year…I’m so tired, Harry.”

“I know.”

He does know, Draco realizes. They had fought in the same war, were fighting the same struggle for control inside themselves.

“Do you dream?” Harry asks, reaching out to take the wand. Draco lets him.

“Yes. Do you?”

Potter rolls the light source between calloused fingers, humming as he thinks. “Not like you mean. I do, constantly, but my dreams aren’t always nightmares.”

“Lucky,” Draco says. Their eyes meet.

“You know,” Harry says, looking back towards the ground. “I was…well, I mean, if you want to…we could…?”

“We could what?”

The Boy Who Lived gestures vaguely between them. “We could try…this.”

“So articulate.”

“You know what I mean, Malfoy.”

He does know. And now Potter knows that he knows, and he knows that Potter knows that he knows, and this is just some big realization fest, isn’t it? But the thought is strangely calming.

“The hero and a Death Eater?” He forces a grin. “I’m pretty sure the world would explode.”

Harry doesn’t smile. “Maybe.” He moves closer. “But it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

_Gryffindors._

“You barely know me.” 

“We’ve gone to school together for eight years.”

“During which I bullied you and your friends mercilessly.”

Now Potter does smile, and it is gentle and teasing and bright. “Draco, I hate to tell you this, but your insults weren’t all that great.”

And then he is laughing, and the blond boy lets out a reluctant chuckle, because he does know this, and has accepted it (although he still winces whenever Blaise reminds him of particularly lackwit times).

“Well?” Harry says, and he is waiting for an answer this time.

Fight or flight.

Draco is a coward. He is not brave, he is not brawny. He is intelligent, and he is a coward. His instincts are screaming _Run!_ but right now he is too busy thinking to listen to them.

He thinks of Pansy’s eyes, of Blaise’s smirk, of Luna’s absurdly purple nightdress that he’s beginning to grow fond of.

He remembers the sounds of screaming and his nightmares, but Potter’s eyes are piercing into him, and the war seems far away.

Draco reaches out to take hold of his wand, and his fingers brush Harry’s. He keeps them there, just barely touching, an almost, a maybe.

The light from the wand abruptly changes color into a soft glow of blue that widens around them. His wand has never done that before.

Fight or flight. Stay or run. Yes or no. Take the leap or stay standing on the edge.

Although it shouldn’t be possible, Draco swears he can smell vanilla and cologne. He can smell rain and flowering trees and the air above the Quidditch pitch.

So he makes his decision. And he leaps.

Draco leans forward, just enough to brush his lips against the other boy’s. The brief touch lights a spark in his stomach, one that starts to jump in nerves and excitement.

The wand falls to the ground between them, forgotten, as Harry reaches out and pulls him closer, crashing their mouths together again.

There will be repercussions to this, Draco knows. They still have a lot to figure out, and dreams to fight and worlds to explode. But he can’t really bring himself to care right at the moment, because Harry Potter is kissing him and he is kissing back, and all he can think of is sunshine.  


End file.
